


A More Refined Butcher

by cheshire_carroll



Series: A More Refined Butcher [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, Hannibal is his own warning, Murder, Referenced Child Abuse, So is Nathan Wesninski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:03:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshire_carroll/pseuds/cheshire_carroll
Summary: Hannibal Lecter is not impressed by the Butcher of Baltimore. He is, however, impressed by his young son.Or: Hannibal doesn't like having another predator hunting in his territory and a six-year-old Neil ends up being raised by a different, more refined butcher





	1. Chapter 1

**A More Refined Butcher**

——

There was something inherently distasteful to Hannibal about the work of the "Butcher of Baltimore". He wasn't one to cast stones from his glass house, of course— his own designs could be and most certainly were considered just as distasteful to the wider public, yet the so-called Butcher lacked any sense of artistry or theatre and Hannibal found the slaughter so _wasteful_.

He'd been aware of the presence of a fellow serial killer who called Baltimore his hunting grounds when he'd first moved to the city to open his new psychiatric practice, had even thought it advantageous, a way to hide his kills under another's signature, but he hadn't predicted just how _irritated_ the Butcher made him feel. Hannibal was a murderer with his own brand of sadism, but the Butcher was a torturer— he hacked his victims to pieces while keeping them alive to suffer as he did so, and despite his skill, for there was certainly skill involved, there was no true _artistry_ to his work.

The thought of recreating and mimicking one of the Butcher's kills made Hannibal shudder in distaste. He may be a butcher too, a particularly apt label considering he harvested his victims for meat, but he was by far a more refined butcher (and the label of 'butcher' rankled; after all, at thirteen years of age he'd attacked a butcher for the obscene insult the man had given his aunt, before later killing him— his first kill).

As Hannibal settled in Baltimore, opening his practice for business, the knowledge of another predator stalking the streets of his city set him ill at ease; it was a constant prickling of his nerves, a sense of encroachment that seeped through to every part of his daily routine. Hannibal prided himself on his perfect control; killing to him was a pleasure, not a compulsion. Yet it wasn't pleasure that drove him to finally decide enough was enough; it was the predator that lurked under his skin deciding that there wasn't room enough in their territory for the both of them— the Butcher had to go.

Fortunately, it wasn't a difficult task to track down the name and face behind the crimes— Nathan Wesninski was well known to the police, despite the fact they could not find enough evidence to charge him for his numerous crimes both as a serial killer and as the head of a small but particularly brutal organised crime syndicate. The corruption within the Baltimore police force, of course, played no small part in that lack of evidence— Wesninski was an active part of Baltimore's high society and he often hosted lavish parties at his house, to which judges, prosecutors and various police officers, including the chief of police, were all regularly invited.

Wesninski believed that he ruled Baltimore; that much was obvious to Hannibal. It irked him, that such a careless, artless killer was permitted to believe that he had amounted to such a position; it set off a dark anger inside him that crept like frost along his veins and settled like ice in the marrows of his bones.

Anger, fury, hate— such emotions had always been cold, frozen things to Hannibal; they were like a Lithuanian winter, where the snow fell silent as death, hunger gnawed at your insides with vicious fangs and tears only froze on your face. Hot rage, that wild and burning anger that flared fast and furiously, was a liability that caused people to act impulsively and against their best interests. His rage, a frozen thing that burned more dangerously then any fire, elevated him above such carelessness; it burnt his very emotions away, leaving behind nothing but a bitter cold and cruel, icy calculation, and meant that even at his most enraged he did not act on impulse, that he took the time to make sure he did not make mistakes.

The Butcher was the opposite; he was ruled by his emotions, Hannibal could see it in the unrestrained dark, boiling fury of Wesninski's crime scenes (the photographs of which he had obtained access to through a truly tasteless but undeniably useful magazine that went by the name 'Tattlecrime'*). Hannibal went after the rude— and the Butcher hunting on the turf that he'd now claimed as _his_? That was more then rude enough to qualify him for a _place_ at Hannibal's table.

Hannibal certainly wasn't ignorant to the danger that going after a serial killer who ran an organised crime syndicate posed to his continued health and wellbeing— he understood it would be smarter by far to cut his losses and leave Baltimore. But he was already too fond of the city to step back; he enjoyed its opera, its art galleries and the performances at the theatre, which when combined with the success of his newly opened practice had Hannibal determined not to allow his inability to tolerate the Butcher's proximity to ruin the city for him. And so he began to plan.

All of Hannibal's kills involved a large amount of planning considering he did not believe in acting on impulse, but the murder of Nathan Wesninski would be his most ambitious kill yet and he could not afford to make even a single misstep. Fortunately, Wesninski was arrogant— he considered himself untouchable and his carelessness reflected that as he managed to fail even in the most basic of defensive measures of ensuring that his daily routes and routines varied so it wasn't such a simple matter to know where he would be and at what time.

Gaining access to the man himself was also very little challenge. Hannibal and Wesninski moved in the same social circles, both of them members of society's upper class and fairly active within its community. Falling in with those who were close to Wesninski, a well-crafted mask sliding into place over his own monstrous one, Hannibal was unsurprised but satisfied to soon receive an invitation to an event held by Wesninski himself in his own home. How perfectly idiotic could the man have been, to not only fail to recognise a fellow predator but to then welcome said predator into his lair?

A slow but sure gathering of information gave Hannibal the foundation which he needed to develop a plan. Wesninski committed a fair number of his crimes in his own home, in a hidden basement not part of the house's blueprints. He always surrounded himself with underlings— the most common four were Lola and Romero Malcolm, Jackson Plank and Patrick DiMaccio. He had a wife, Mary Wesninski née Hatford, but the marriage was loveless, one arranged between Mary's father, the leader of a British crime family, and Wesninski. Wesninski had one child, a six-year-old son by the name of Nathaniel who carried himself like he was already shrinking away from anything that could hurt him. And finally, while Wesninski appeared to be in business with a number of different organised crime syndicates there was definitely a much closer, more considerable connection between himself and the Moriyama yakuza.

Everything that he uncovered went further towards reiterating Wesninski was a high risk target, but as the hunt progressed Hannibal found his excitement growing. For all that Wesninski was an unrefined butcher, he was in his own way a worthy prey that would truly test Hannibal's skills.

—

Hannibal waited for a night when Mary Wesninski was away to break into the Wesninski house– he'd prefer to avoid any collateral if possible, especially considering the challenge he knew the Butcher would be. He didn't need to be worrying about extra threats on top of that.

Once inside the house, Hannibal started to track down his prey. It wasn't a difficult endeavour– there were a limited number of places for Wesninski to lurk in his home, and Hannibal's third guess, the hidden basement, proved correct.

Approaching Wesninski on silent feet, Hannibal had his knife ready in his hand and an emergency pistol tucked into his belt, despite his loathing of guns. Wesninski was facing away from him, yet despite how unrefined his fellow murderer was, the Butcher was still a predator and though Hannibal hadn't made a sound, Wesninski still reacted to the threat not _seen_ but _felt_ , with instincts Hannibal knew well.

The Butcher lunged into action, a blade also already in hand as he turned. Wesninskis, Hannibal knew, did not use guns– they used knives. Hannibal attempted to use the Butcher's momentum to take him down but Wesninski twisted away, knife flashing in the dim light of the basement as he did so, and Hannibal only just wrenched himself out of its path in time.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Wesninski snarled, ice-blue eyes vicious. "Do you know who I am!?"

Hannibal didn't bother replying, releasing his well-stocked 'murder kit' to fall to the floor with a dull _thud_ then lunging forwards into Wesninski's space instead of pulling away. The ensuing fight was short but brutal; Hannibal could feel the adrenaline pumping in his veins, could hear the thundering of blood in his ears. He felt alive in this moment; alive in a way he rarely felt at all, like he was balancing on the knife's edge of a sheer, deadly drop, with nothing but certain death below him. And then he moved a second too late and Wesninski's knife carved a line of blood and fire over his hip.

Fury turned his blood to ice, its teeth sharp and cold, and Hannibal turned vicious as the predator in his brain moved to the forefront of his mind. He dismissed the pain as secondary as he dazed Wesninski with a backhanded pummel to the head then, before the Butcher could regain his senses, Hannibal buried the hungry steel of his blade up to its hilt in Wesninski's neck, sidestepping the inevitable spray of blood as he bisected the artery with a cold, detached efficiency.

The Butcher gurgled as he fell to the ground, blood spurting from the gaping wound in his neck. Hannibal's heart was pounding against his ribcage and rough pants dragged from his heaving chest as he stared down at his dying prey. It took very little time for Wesninski to stop moving entirely, but Hannibal's viciously pleased sense of victory was ruined by a small sound, like a choked-off whimper.

His head snapped towards the direction of the sound, and his searching gaze stilled on a pair of wide, ice-blue eyes and a pale little face mottled with black and purple.

Nathaniel Wesninski.

Seeing that he'd been spotted, the child he'd previously overlooked, tucked away out of sight as he was in the corner of the basement, broke his silence and started to gasp ragged breaths, raw and bleeding emotions all over the place like somebody had taken a knife to him.

Up close he was clearly a pretty child, but it was a weary, brittle sort of prettiness. With pale, bruised skin and auburn hair like a dash of dark blood against the snow, the thinness of his slender limbs gave him a sense of frailty, and his pale, frozen eyes brought to mind the sharpness of shattered ice.

Hannibal hesitated, his hand moving to press against his hip where he could feel the burning heat of his blood through the barrier of his glove. He didn't wish to harm the child, but if he had to he would at least make its death quick and ensure it did not suffer. 

"You're hurt," the child, Nathaniel Wesninski, finally broke the weighted silence in the basement. His voice quivered slightly, his pale winter eyes not looking away from his father's body. It was when Hannibal failed to respond that the child finally looked up and over at him. The boy was still breathing too quickly, but there was no haze of shock or disassociation in the child's face. "You're hurt," Nathaniel repeated, "you're bleeding."

"Just a little bit," Hannibal answered after a moment, hoping that the conversation would keep the child calm.

"I... I can help you?" The little boy offered. "We have medicine stuff, for cuts, and Mama taught me how to do stitches."

"Pardon?" Hannibal asked, not quite sure he'd heard that right. Nathaniel glanced down at his dead father before carefully shuffling forwards towards Hannibal, lifting up his sleep-shirt as he did so. Hannibal very carefully did not react to the sight of the child's torso, covered in far too many scars from cruel blades slicing through vulnerable, tender flesh. A mass of scarring over his lower abdomen in particular dragged his attention to it; it looked as if someone had attempted to gut the child, and by the age of the scarring he would have been three years old, four at the most, when it had happened.

"Look," Nathaniel said, pointing to a much fresher wound higher up on his chest, the vivisected flesh held together by stiff black thread, "I sewed that one myself." The boy sounded proud but the sharp edges of an icy anger had Hannibal wishing he hadn't killed Wesninski so quickly. Hannibal was a monster amongst men, just as Nathan Wesninski was, but unlike the pig he'd just gutted, he did _not_ hurt children, _never_ children. If he had to kill them, he made it quick and painless, never a drawn-out torture like the one Wesninski had committed against his own son.

"The sutures are a touch uneven, but they are well done," he replied to the boy, not sugar-coating his words— this wasn't a child who needed to be shielded from life's cold truths. "And thank you for the thoughtful offer, but I assure you that I'm quite capable of stitching the wound myself." He was, after all, a former surgeon.

Nathaniel didn't appear at all discouraged by his refusal— Hannibal supposed that a child who'd apparently been used as a carving board by his father and taught to stitch his own wounds by his mother wouldn't be as needy and emotionally delicate as 'normal' children.

He hissed slightly under his breath as several droplets of his blood spattered onto the floor of the basement. Leaving his DNA behind at a crime scene wasn't something he'd done in decades, but he could already feel the effects of blood loss and he needed to both deal with his witness and leave the Wesninski manor-house before the Butcher's people came knocking.

"Do you want me to get the cleaning sup-supla- things?" Nathaniel asked suddenly and when Hannibal glanced back up at him, he was startled to see the boy was looking where Hannibal had just moments before, at where his blood had dripped onto the floor.

"Cleaning... supplies?" He asked cautiously and Nathaniel nodded, looking back up from the floor to warily meet Hannibal's eyes.

"Yes, sup-ply-ez," the boy carefully sounded out the syllables, as if committing the word to memory. "Like bleach— that's smelly stuff that hurts my nose. Daddy says it makes sure police can't use blood to find him. I don't want them to find you."

Most people would likely be asking why the boy wouldn't want the police to find his father's murderer, but Hannibal had a better question, though it really wasn't much of a question when they both well knew the answer— "You hated your father that much, then?" He asked and Nathaniel looked back at him, a glint of darkness suddenly evident in glacial eyes; a shadow that spoke of a deep hatred and bitterness that had Hannibal's mouth curving up into a smile. "Yes, I would like the cleaning supplies. And if you could get some bandages, I would appreciate that too." He told the boy, not waiting for an answer to his question; any sort of reply, of confirmation, was unnecessary and both he and Nathaniel knew that.

The child who wore a battleground on his skin, the war trenches carved by knives into innocent flesh, gave him a small, shy smile that had him looking his age for the first time since Hannibal had noticed him, curled up in the corner. "I'll be right back," he promised and, before Hannibal could think the better of allowing the child out of his sight, the boy dashed off.

Hannibal felt himself grow tense and wondered if he should be taking the chance to leave. He hesitated too long, however, indecision warring with an innate, ingrained perfectionism, and then Nathaniel was back, his too-small hands wrapped around a white plastic bottle of bleach, a roll of bandages tucked under his left arm.

The boy showed no fear of stepping forwards into Hannibal's space to hand him the items, and for a moment Hannibal contemplated bending over to snap the frail bones of the child's neck. But with a blink, the moment passed and instead he accepted the bandages, quickly wrapping the wound on his hip with a surgeon's steady, practiced hands, letting the dressing apply the needed pressure to slow the bleeding until he returned to his own home.

He'd originally planned on displaying the Butcher's body, but frankly he didn't have the time he needed, especially with the handicap of his injury. He settled for using Wesninski's own cleaver to remove the fingers from the man's corpse at the knuckle, not wanting to risk his DNA being under the nails. He collected all ten inside a plastic clip-lock bag which he stashed in his 'murder kit', then glanced over at where Nathaniel was still a silent presence, observing him.

The child didn't appear disturbed by the mutilation of his father's corpse, despite the grisly sight it must have been. He wondered just how many of his victims the Butcher had dismembered alive in front of his own young son that the boy could appear so unaffected by something unquestionably monstrous. It made him wonder if the Butcher had ever forced the boy to join in; grooming the heir to his kingdom, so to speak.

The thought was... _interesting_.

Reassured that Nathaniel wasn't about to start screaming and carrying on at the sight of the mutilation of his father's fresh corpse, Hannibal retrieved his own knives from his 'murder kit' and started to harvest the Butcher, using EMT scissors to cut away Wesninski's clothing, leaving the underpants in place for the sake of the child present, before beginning to break down the human body in front of him into choice cuts of meat.

He carved the tongue out at the root, sealing it in a Tupperware container, before moving on to extracting the liver and kidneys with a surgeon's skill, wrapping each organ before packing it into a plastic bag— once he reached his car, he'd transfer them to the portable coolers he'd packed for the occasion. He was originally planning on collecting the blood too, but he'd have needed to string Wesninski up for that and he wouldn't be able to lift the man without ripping his wound open further and risk leaving behind DNA.

He was acutely aware of the fact he had a silent witness to his _butchering_ of the Butcher— but at no point during the grisly process had Nathaniel looked away from the sight of what he was doing to the boy's father and it made Hannibal... curious.

The final parts of Wesninski he'd planned to harvest was one of the femurs with the meat attached. He had a saw and an axe in his car he'd been planning to use, but with the change in plans regarding the body disposal, he didn't have an appropriate tool to use— not without having to go back and forth from the car through the house, not a risk he wanted to take. Frowning, he considered skipping the bone harvest and moving on to the clean-up— but then Nathaniel spoke up.

"What's wrong?" the intuitive child asked, his voice soft and piping.

What was _wrong_? A better question, Hannibal thought to himself, unsure whether he was more amused or incredulous, would be what could possibly be considered _right_ about the current scene— and yet, Nathaniel had already proved himself to be surprisingly helpful.

"I need something to cut through the femur," he told the child. "That's—"

"The top bit of the leg," Nathaniel interrupted, and Hannibal held back a frown at the rudeness, focusing instead on the way the boy was looking up at him for validation.

"Very clever," he praised and Nathaniel's cheeks pinked. "Not many children your age would know that." He added, purposefully leading.

"Daddy showed me," Nathaniel told him, lifting a small hand to point at the blood-soaked thigh of his father's corpse. "He chopped some people up and told me the names of the parts then got me to say them back to him. He... didn't like it if I got it wrong."

Well that certainly explained the lack of hysteria, Hannibal mused. "Do you know where he keeps the tools he used to... chop those people up?" He asked the child and Nathaniel nodded, scurrying over to one of the steel storage cabinets that lined the back wall of the basement. A chain with a heavy padlock wrapped several times around the handle, but the bolt-cutters in his 'murder kit' easily cut through the padlock and he caught the chain before it could drop to the ground.

Opening the two doors of the cabinet, Hannibal smiled at the sight before him— half of the tools were blunt and stained with blood, an intimidation technique of the Butcher, he guessed, or perhaps just sadism at its 'finest', but the other half were sleek and shining, sharpened to razor-sharp edges. Perfect.

He used a small-handled axe to chop through one of the legs at the point directly below the groin and a few inches above the knee, before wrapping the detached meaty thigh in plastic and then bagging it. His final act of harvest was an inside joke, almost— he'd sliced off the cheeks of his first victim, who had been a butcher by trade, and he felt a sense of satisfaction as he sliced Wesninski's cheeks too from his face.

The gloves of his 'murder suit' now soaked with blood up past the elbows, Hannibal stood and retrieved the large plastic container of bleach Nathaniel had brought to him. He started to splash it around, wrinkling his nose at the harsh chemical stench that burned his sensitive nostrils, yet there was a sense of relief that eased through him as he carefully erased every single drop of his DNA from the scene of the murder. He considered gasoline and a match, but decided he'd rather be as far from Wesninski's house as possible when the body was discovered and didn't wish to speed up the timetable by lighting a fire.

And finally, of course, there was Nathaniel.

"Are you going now?" The boy asked in a quiet voice that was at odds with the sudden tension in his small frame when Hannibal turned to him. There was something wild in the child's winter eyes, something feral and almost desperate that reached to the darkness inside Hannibal, reminding it of another desperate, furious, afraid little child, one he hadn't been able to save– Mischa had been just six years old too, when those men had killed her then consumed her.

"Do you want me to go?" He asked calmly. The boy's breath hitched, fear briefly visible on his small face before it was hidden behind a blank mask. Hannibal almost smiled– Nathaniel Wesninski was wounded, but he was all the more dangerous for it. Mischa had kicked and screamed and fought her murderers until her very last breath– his last memory of her before they'd broken her neck was of her mouth and chin soaked a bloody red as she'd torn a chunk of flesh out of one of the soldiers with her small milk teeth. Nathaniel had the same look about him as she had, that terrible day– a look that said he wouldn't go easily, that he'd fight till the bitter end, ripping his teeth into all those who tried to stamp him out.

Hannibal wasn't the type of person to be prone towards foolish flights of fancy, but this child was different; in Nathaniel, he didn't just see Mischa, he saw himself. He saw who he'd once been, before he'd groomed himself into the apex predator he was today– the same fear and hatred and desperation, the same broken little boy so determined not to let the ones who'd hurt him win.

There was a familiar darkness inside Nathaniel Wesninski that Hannibal suddenly found himself desiring to groom into something magnificent, to help the child emerge from the chrysalis of everything that was holding him back from what he had the potential to become.

The Chesapeake Ripper had never considered taking on a partner, but an apprentice, a protégée? Now that could be interesting.

It wasn't Nathaniel Wesninski's apparent torment at the hands of his father appealing to his better nature that was leading him to consider taking the child with him, for the nightmare that had been his own childhood had killed any such better nature that the child's suffering could have appealed to— and his sense of empathy along with it.

Despite his prestigious ancestry and aristocratic parents, Hannibal's early years had been ones filled with suffering and starvation. His parents, Count Lecter and Countess Simonetta Sforza-Lecter, hadn't been able to escape Lithuania following the Second World War before the Soviet forces had arrested them, Hannibal just barely four years of age at the time.

All but the very young and the very old were caught up in the terror of the Soviet's war against the class system— and the Lecters were no exception (nor a surprise, for his family's wealth had been founded from the blood and bones of those less fortunate). Their land was confiscated and their castle renovated into an orphanage, his father was deported to where the Count would become just another of the eventual half a million Lithuanians to die in the GULAGs of Siberia, and under the new communism laws his mother was placed on starvation rations, the former countess forced to clean public toilets and shovel snow in order to provide the proof of work she needed to qualify for the meagre rations to keep herself, her young son and her infant daughter from starvation.

Despite the burden her existence added to their living situation, Hannibal had loved Mischa deeply. With his father gone and his mother always working and in such poor health, he had been the one who spent the most time with Mischa, practically raising her singlehandedly.

Their family name prevented them from living as ordinary citizens in Soviet Lithuania, his mother in particular, and the progressive persecution she suffered for their past station in life eventually led to her death, following which he and Mischa, at ages eight and four respectively, were sent off to their ancestral castle turned orphanage, a building Hannibal had not set foot in since he was four years old and had called it home.

A mere two years later, Mischa would be the third member of his family to lose her life when a walk through the forest near the castle-turned-orphanage's grounds turned deadly following an abduction by former Lithuanian freedom fighters turned looters who were hiding in the forest from the Soviets. He and his sister were held captive by the men for several days before Mischa was killed and cannibalised by them, something which would haunt Hannibal everyday from that moment onward.

In the aftermath of his sister's grisly murder he'd managed to escape his captors and flee deeper into the forest where he was eventually found by Soviet soldiers who returned him to the orphanage, but a part of him would always remain trapped in that moment of horror when he'd lost his last true connection to humanity.

His final years at the orphanage took on a different tone to his earlier ones. Most of the children there were cruel and vicious, all psychologically scarred by war, death, suffering and slow starvation, and while in the past he'd avoided conflict for the sake of his sister, he started seeking it out instead, frequently attacking and wounding the worst of the bullies as he purposefully sparked confrontations with them.

Alone with a heart carved from ice and bitter winter in his bones, Hannibal didn't care when the deportees were slowly released from the GULAGs yet his father never returned. When he was twelve, the efforts towards the destalinization of Lithuania finally allowed Hannibal's last living blood-relative, an uncle who'd inherited the title of Count Lecter from Hannibal's deceased father, to get him out of the country and to France. While Hannibal would always hold a sense of gratitude towards his uncle Robertus for that, the fact remained that by then it had been too late for Mischa– and too late for his humanity.

Cold and frozen as he was, Hannibal had little difficulty crafting a mask that allowed him to fit into the upper class society he'd so suddenly been thrust into. His uncle's wife, Lady Murasaki, was one of the few capable of seeing though his facade and took it upon herself to groom him into a debonair sophisticate.

He excelled at his new school, particularly at languages. His mother had taught him French as a small child, while he'd learned Russian during his school years in Lithuania and during his high school years in France he picked up English with an enviable ease, while one of Murasaki-obasan's retainers taught him Japanese at her insistence after he expressed interest in the language.

When he broached the topic of learning self-defence, Murasaki-obasan had agreed immediately. Her family had samurai heritage that she was proud of and she approved of his desire to able to fight. She organised for the very finest of instructors to train him in a variety of different techniques, from those focused on defence to the brutal styles of Muay Thai and Krav Maga.

He graduated at the top of his classes and was immediately offered a place at _Université Pierre-et-Marie-Curie_ , the highest ranking university for Clinical Medicine not just in Paris but the whole of France. Despite studying to be a surgeon, however, he had very little interest in the Hippocratic Oath– he fully intended on finding the men who'd tormented him and brutally murdered then cannibalised his sister. After all, he'd already murdered one man by then (the afore-mentioned butcher); what did it matter that he added more to his tally?

His emotions had never truly thawed, following his childhood. He'd grown up ensuring that he was stronger, smarter and more capable then everyone around him, and even when he'd ensured that every single man involved in his sister's murder died knowing true agony, he'd had no intention of returning to be part of the herd. Predators didn't turn back into prey once their hunt was over, they just found new prey– as he had done.

The predator he had designed himself to be had little room for empathy. The abuse of Nathaniel annoyed him more then anything, mostly due to the disgust he felt towards the elder Wesninski, his own disinclination towards child victims a permanent mark Mischa had succeeded in leaving on his psyche. Unlike it would for normal humans, his annoyance and disgust was not accompanied by an urgent desire to end the child's suffering. But the urge to shape the child's suffering into something wondrous, something dark and beautiful and truly inspired? Well that was another matter entirely— and as he looked into ice-blue eyes that brought to mind memories of a Lithuanian winter, Hannibal most certainly felt the desire to take and transform, to mould the child into his greatest masterpiece yet.

And so, he made a choice— a somewhat rash choice, perhaps, but there were times that risks did pay off.

"Would you like to come with me?" He offered to the boy and Nathaniel went very, very still.

"Are you going to kill me?" He asked, pale eyes cold as death, a sudden warning hint of milk-teeth visible; a small but fierce animal backed into a corner, baring its teeth at the larger predator in the room.

"No," Hannibal said honestly, "I want to help you, to teach you how to exist as you are truly meant to be."

Nathaniel hesitated again; indecision battled within those winter eyes as want waged war against instinct and what Hannibal presumed to be self-preservation.

"Daddy says– _said_ that I'm not good at learning."

"Well," Hannibal said with a cold smile, "maybe he wasn't teaching you the right things."

"And you would?" Nathaniel asked softly and Hannibal inclined his head.

"Yes," he told the boy, "I would."

There was a long moment of silence and then Nathaniel nodded. "Okay," he whispered.

And that was that.

—

As Nathaniel helped him carry the harvested cuts of meat up from the basement, through the house and down the street to where Hannibal's car was hidden, he realised very quickly just why the boy had been so quick to agree to go with a complete stranger who'd just butchered his father— he was clearly terrified of more then just Wesninski senior, considering the way he flinched with every sound, constantly looking around him with hunted eyes. Hannibal wouldn't deny to feeling a certain relief himself when they exited the house and finally reached his car. He swiftly transferred the meat to the portable coolers then opened the passenger door of the car, gesturing for Nathaniel to step in.

Nathaniel was a silent presence beside him as he drove through the dark streets of Baltimore. He appeared shrunken into himself and Hannibal looked forward to when the child regained his icy fire.

Arriving at his house, Nathaniel followed at his heels as he unloaded the coolers, carrying them one by one into his own basement, where the large portable fridge and freezer were waiting, along with his own 'butcher's block'. His 'kill room' would be a morbid, terrifying sight to most, but Nathaniel didn't even flinch— it made Hannibal wonder if the boy expected every house to have such a room hidden below it.

The child was clearly exhausted, however, with eyelids drooping despite the way he was trying so hard to stay awake and Hannibal led the small, silent figure to one of the guest rooms, watching with muted amusement as the little boy crawled gratefully under the sheets and fell asleep almost immediately.

Satisfied that the child wouldn't soon wake, Hannibal first went to his bathroom and used the medical supplies he had stored there to treat his wound. Much to his annoyance, it ended up requiring fifteen stitches. He really, really wished he'd managed to draw out the Butcher's death.

After he'd finished applying a clean dressing, he returned to the basement to ensure the meat was all stored appropriately, taking his time to debone the thigh in preparation for breakfast the following morning. He then took the cheeks with him to the kitchen, having already picked out a recipe for them; slow cooked braised cheek with a red wine sauce. It wasn't the sort of gourmet meal he served his guests, but it was a favourite of his and he knew it well enough that he didn't require a recipe to refer back to, which considering he needed to get his thoughts in order was an appropriate choice of dish.

Cheek had a punchy flavour that, when treated with low heat and a bit of liquid, broke down into soft, silken strands and Hannibal had made the process of transforming them into a dish so meltingly tender it could be eaten with a spoon into an art form. He prepared the meat by removing the skin and fatty membrane before patting it dry and adding seasoning before searing the cheeks on each side until they were nicely browned. He removed the cheeks and placed them on a plate, covering them with foil to keep warm while he added garlic, onion, carrots and celery and a splash of oil to the pan, letting them combine with the juices from the cheeks and sauté until it was ready to pour into the slow-cooker, then place the cheeks on top.

He prepared the wine next, a lovely merlot, pouring it into the fry pan and bringing it to a simmer before adding it to the slow cooker, along with a stock he'd made himself from a _very rude pig_ and assorted herbs. By the time the cheeks were ready to be left in the slow cooker for the next ten hours, Hannibal felt steady and in control. In preparation for breakfast, he began the process of baking his own bread, kneading freshly mixed dough until it was satin-smooth then placing it in a lightly oiled bowl which he covered in cling wrap before retiring to bed.

He woke early, not quite relaxed enough to sleep past the rising of the sun, its light peeking through the tiny gaps of his curtains enough to stir him into wakefulness. It only took a moment for him to remember the events of the previous evening– the hot throb over his hip was a good reminder.

He didn't waste time in bed, instead making his way to the kitchen to turn both his ovens on to pre-heat before making quick work of his morning routine of showering, shaving, oral and dental hygiene, combing his hair, attending to his wound and then dressing for the day.

He didn't plan on leaving the house so didn't don one of his usual formal three piece suits, instead selecting a pair of finely tailored grey trousers, a pale blue crisp oxford stripe shirt, a deep blue cardigan and a cotton and wool blend brown-navy plaid sport coat. It occurred to him he was going to need to acquire a wardrobe for Nathaniel and he grimaced slightly, realising the child would either have to continue wearing the sleep-clothes he'd been wearing until he managed to do so, or possibly one of his own shirts, which would be long enough to be a dress for the boy.

He returned to the kitchen, retrieving the bones and bread dough he'd prepared before retiring for the night before lining two trays with foil-lined baking paper. He prepared the bread quickly before placing it on one of the trays, dusting it with flour before sliding the tray into the oven.

While the bread baked, he pulled the bones from the fridge and sliced them lengthways in preparation before arranging them side up on the tray and slid the tray into the second oven. As he waited for the marrow to cook until it had softened and started to seperate from the bone, he combined parsley, shallots and capers in small bowl then whisked together olive oil and lemon juice and drizzled the dressing over parsley mixture until the leaves were lightly coated.

Just as he was retrieving the marrow from the oven, he heard a small voice ask, "is that my daddy?"

Hannibal very carefully did not visibly startle, despite not having heard the child approach. As he turned, he noted that bruising on Nathaniel's face looked even worse in the bright light of the day.

Considering the child's question, Hannibal judged Nathaniel's expression to be more curious then alarmed and so took the risk of confirming that yes, it was his father's bones on the foil-lined tray. Nathaniel's eyebrows furrowed.

"But why are they in the oven?" He asked, clearly puzzled.

"Because I'm making breakfast," Hannibal answered simply.

"You can do that?" Nathaniel asked, now plainly bewildered. "Wouldn't it be yucky?"

"Does it smell 'yucky'?" He asked the boy, amused as Nathaniel took a cautious sniff, unnecessary really considering the pleasant scent wafting through the kitchen from the opened oven, and slowly shook his head.

"Is that why you're cooking him? Because he tastes nice?" He asked hesitantly, looking up at Hannibal with those winter-pale, curious eyes.

Children, Hannibal mused, especially those raised by sadistic serial killers, were delightfully morally ambiguous with little to no sense of 'right' and 'wrong'.

"I believe this mentorship is going to go quite well." He commented. And he truly believed it.

Later that morning, he let Nathaniel lay out the golden-brown toasted slices of freshly baked bread that he then buttered with a marrow spread that tasted of meaty bones roasted with the fat still clinging and seasoned with spices. 

Later yet, Hannibal would rename the child, his new "son", Mischa Giuliano Lecter; Mischa, after his innocent little sister, the only human being he ever remembered loving, who he had felt tremendous grief for after her loss (and whose name was, in fact, traditionally male); and Giuliano, after an ancestor on his mother's side, Giuliano Bevisangue; a feared and ruthless figure in 12th-century Tuscany who was from the Machiavelli bloodline.

His Mischa had represented, to him, the goodness and light that had disappeared from his life after her death; now Hannibal had another child in his life, but this one would not represent either goodness or light. This child he would raise in his image; a predator of humans, one who would not be so vulnerable to the monsters in the world as his little Mischa had been.

And as the years passed, Hannibal would feel great amusement at the dawning horror in the eyes of the rude pigs he'd selected to harvest when they looked at his Mischa; a pretty child with an angelic face and a sweet smile who was capable of pushing warmth into his icy-pale eyes to fool the ignorant herd around them. Hannibal was the only one who knew of the Lithuanian winter hidden in his eyes and the battleground carved into his skin– the only one still among the living, that was.

He'd raised his protégée well.

__

And then Hannibal met Will Graham.

 

 


	2. Sequel

_Part Two of the series has been posted:_

 

**WHISPER THROUGH THE CHRYSALIS**

Hannibal had always taught Mischa not to play games with law enforcement— making artwork out of pigs to display was one thing, but actually inserting themselves into the investigation? Getting involved with the FBI? That was against the rules, and when Hannibal inevitably ends up on the run after breaking those rules, well, Mischa holds grudges.

After refusing to go on the run with Hannibal, Mischa Lecter instead goes into Witness Protection, gets a new name, then starts breaking the rules too. He’s never thought much of Exy; he knows the risks, knows the rules, but if Hannibal can break them, then so can he— which is how ‘Neil Josten’ ends up joining the Millport Dingos.

Six months later, David Wymack shows up with an interesting offer.

 

Or: whatever name he uses, 'Neil' still runs on spite, Wymack bites off more then he can chew (not that he realises that yet), and the cannibal puns are definitely a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> *It's my head canon that before Tattlecrime became a website, it was a magazine
> 
> **Mischa's death in the book is specifically positioned as taking place in the crumbling Lithuania that existed at the end of and immediately after World War II. The deserters who eat her are desperate for food, and a young child is the best they can do. Needless to say, considering the technology, websites and cars in the show and Mads Mikkelsen's age, there's no way that the tv series' Hannibal Lecter is old enough to remember World War II, so I had to shift Hannibal's early life to another historical period— it is NOT, however, entirely historically correct, as I ended up researching multiple scenarios trying to find the most plausible one in accordance to both Lithuania's history and Hannibal's age in the show but I was unable to find an exact match. Considering this is a work of fiction, I decided to keep my favourite version, which is the one posted. Considering I've warned you that it's the case and explained why, all comments that bitch about the historical inaccuracy will be deleted— and with great prejudice.


End file.
